


American Ghosts

by YoiteMichealis



Category: Banana Fish (Anime & Manga)
Genre: Ash is an angsty idiot, Boys In Love, M/M, Max is sad dad, Photography, Post-Canon, Reunions, let my boys be happy, please bring Ash home
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-27
Updated: 2018-12-27
Packaged: 2019-09-28 20:44:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17190077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YoiteMichealis/pseuds/YoiteMichealis
Summary: “Do you think American ghosts know the way to Japan?”In which Eiji just wants Ash, alive or dead, to come home. Or: Soft boys are soft and Max is a good dad.





	American Ghosts

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys so Banana Fish has destroyed me and I've only been home from university for less than a week and I cranked out this whole emotional mess. I beta'd this myself, so if there are mistakes please tell me. I'm not sure if that even makes any sense but I haven't been able to get this particular situation out of my head. I love y'all. Human disaster out.

It had been nearly a year since Max had seen Eiji. Apparently Eiji didn’t like to talk to anyone outside his immediate family anymore, but even if Eiji was feeling sociable the entire Pacific Ocean was quite a hurdle to leap. When Ma had seen Eiji last was at his own wedding last August. The reporter had been, of course, too swept up in the festivities and too enraptured by his beautiful wife to give the boy the much attention, but he succinctly remembered the young man’s sad, soulful eyes gazing at him from across the dance floor. Even through the alcohol and the high of the love of his life returning to him, some part of Max’s intoxicated brain wept for Eiji. The two of them had never been that close; the only common thread between them was a vicious, beautiful man named Ash. Still, there was enough love in his and Jessica’s hearts to invite Eiji when they invited Ibe. But seeing him sitting there all by himself among the merry makers almost made Max regret inviting the now 21-year-old.

Eiji’s solitude made him notice Ash’s absence. Max had cried bitterly for weeks after hearing of Ash’s death. _It just wasn’t fair._ War had taught Max that life was never fair, that even the best – poor Griffin – died and it was never fair; he had seen horrors that haunted him to this day, but meeting Ash Lynx had made him want to hold him close and take some of that pain away. So, Max didn’t have anything against Eiji, the kid was one of the kindest people he’d ever met, but he had loved Ash like a son and it shook to his center to get married without _both_ of his sons. Even so, Max knew it was unfair to blame Eiji for the loss of Ash, the young man was hurting even more than Max was. Not knowing what to say and constantly being assailed by well-wishers, Max found a brief moment to sit next to the Japanese man and squeeze his hand gently. Even though Eiji’s face still betrayed his continued grief, the younger man nodded his head gratefully.

Max had been surprised to receive a call from Eiji months after his wedding. He assumed that his connection to Ash would be too painful for a still grieving man to expose himself to. May things had changed for Eiji? May he was finally moving on?

Things had certainly changed for Max since he had last met Eiji. For one, Jessica and Michael had finally moved back to New York, filling a long aching hole that their estrangement had caused Max. Perhaps more surprising was the call Max had received in the middle of the night mere weeks after his wedding.

The reporter had woken to a call from an unknown number, blearily trying to stop the phone from ringing so it wouldn’t wake Jessica, who was curled against his left side looking as beautiful as ever for a moment Max considered ignoring the call until tomorrow, but his years of dangerous work got the better of him. Telemarketers and spam bots rarely called at this hour so that their parent companies could avoid complaints. If someone was calling at – he glanced at the clock across the room – 3 fucking 40 in the morning, it was probably important.

The gruff voice was immediately recognizable.

“Congratulations Dad.”

Max was speechless. He would recognize that voice for the rest of his life, it haunted his dreams. Hiding behind a sarcastic tone there were glimmers of anxiety and guilt, but most of all, Ash sounded legitimately proud of his old man.

“This better not be a fucking joke.” Max was scared of disappointment, but he had hoped for years that Ash wasn’t dead this time either. He hadn’t seen the body, but Charlie had assured him that it was the Ash Lynx. The Chinese had also confirmed the Ash was dead, and Max was sure that Yut-Lung would be the first one to know if his nemesis was still alive.

“How come? Missed me, old man?”  Yes. Yes, he did. But Max would rather no lose to Ash.

“Like hell I did. Did you wait so long to contact me because you eloped? You didn’t want to tell your old man?” Max immediately knew he’d said the wrong thing. Ash inhaled sharply and stayed silent for a long moment.

“Eiji can’t know I’m alive.” If Ash didn’t sound like he was in agony Max would have thought it was a joke. Eiji meant everything to Ash. Why didn’t Ash want to see him?

“Why?”

“Doesn’t matter, just don’t tell him. Congrats old man.” Ash sounded so sad before the call clicked off. Max laid awake for several minutes after setting down his phone. His mind was spinning. He had already decided he would tell Jessica that their honorary son was still living. She was his rock, and he trusted her completely to keep a secret. But despite his joy, Max still felt uneasy. Ash had always been melancholy and dramatic, but somehow this time was different.

Max’s thoughts were occupied by Ash’s broken voice as he traveled to pick up Eiji at his hotel. The radio seemed too loud and not loud enough all at the same time. Shitty pop music wasn’t engaging enough to distract from Max’s guilt. Eiji was in New York again, Ash was still alive, and for some reason Max was the omnipotent incompetent dad trying to create a relationship with Eiji.  

Eiji was in New York because his photography had recently gained a huge amount of attention, both in Japan and America. Max had seen some of his photos, and they were good, but Eiji’s New York exhibition had caught him off guard. Most of the art he had seen from the young Japanese man were hauntingly lonely photographs of various objects, most of them natural.

One that stuck with max for a long time was a photo of a tiny pale-blue bloom of a Japanese Anemone. Other flowers were visible in the background, well lit and vibrant, but they were out of focus. The bloom that was centered in the frame was blocked from the sun. the source of light and shadow were both unknown, but something about seeing that tiny flower was so melancholy it had stuck with Max for a very long time.

_Is that you, Eiji? Or is it Ash?_

But the gentle subtleties of Eiji’s artwork seemed too quiet for New York, too fragile for the blaring car horns and bright lights. Pondering it over the sound of the still obnoxious radio, Max decided Eiji was also too fragile for the world of gangs and drugs. But here he was, looking even smaller than usual in a giant marron coat, bracing himself from the brisk, cold wind as he hurried to Max’s car. Under the coat he wore slacks and a button-down, looking more like a young adult than he had two years ago. Something about his expression made him seem older too, something about him seemed more jaded.

“Thank you for picking me up, Max! I really appreciate you coming tonight.” Eiji, as pleasant and polite as ever, spoke softly as he settled himself into Max’s passenger seat.

“No problem, you ready?”

“Yeah I think so, the attention at these kinds of things make me kind of nervous.” Eiji’s English had majorly improved since his first visit to the United States, but he was still quiet when he spoke. The only time Max had seen Eiji raise his voice was either with Ash or talking about Ash.

Even as they made small talk about Ibe and Max’s family, the lingering guilt in Max’s chest was unshakable. All he could think of was seeing Ash’s eyes soften upon seeing the smaller man, the soft way Ash would smile when he allowed himself to hug Eiji. Why wouldn’t Ash reconnect with Eiji? What happened? There had to exist a way for them to be happier.

Max had barely heard from Ash since that one cryptic phone call, but he had pieced together most of the story of Eiji’s return to Japan. Ash had freaked out upon seeing Eiji hurt, the idea of Eiji being hurt – of dying – because of him had caused something within him to break and had sent him into an endless cycle of anxiety. It had been Ash’s plan to let Eiji forget about him, to let Eiji move on half a world away. But Ibe said that there had been a letter, that Eiji was sure Ash would come back.

Thinking about this too long made Max’s stomach lurch, he could almost imagine the earnest way Eiji must have opened his heart to the younger man, the raw emotion that always played across Ash’s face, the heartbreak when Ash realized he wouldn’t make it to say goodbye to Eiji. It had been Blanca who had saved Ash, who had found him passed out in the library. Ash must have decided again that the only way to keep Eiji safe was to disappear.  

Max wasn’t sure Ash was right. Seeing prominent dark circles and other tiny cracks in Eiji’s put together get-up for his opening made Max want to shake some sense into Ash. Even if Eiji was growing through the pain, Max, more than most, knew that the process of grief was agonizing.

Suddenly Max realized he had not been listening to Eiji’s polite small talk, and that Eiji had noticed his lapse in conversation.

“Sorry.” Max rubbed the back of his head, slightly embarrassed. “What was the name of your show again?”

“American Ghosts.” Eiji was quiet as usual, but he sounded more confident about this, surer of himself.

Max didn’t know how to respond that, so he didn’t. They traveled in uneasy silence till Max found a place to park – which was basically impossible in New York.

“What happens if the star of the show is late?”

“Nothing, hardly anyone is there right at the start of the opening anyway.”

Once they had found a place to park a few blocks away from the gallery in question, Max watched Eiji fiddle with something in his pocket before getting out of the car. The ever-present wind greeted them both, but they’re exposure to it was short lived due to Max’s luck in parking spots.

The space showcasing Eiji’s art was brightly lit; a fact which was clear from the street as almost the entire front of the gallery was made of glass. Under the address of the building, which was displayed with black letters strikingly placed on the glass front wall, was the name of the gallery. Probably just the last name of the owner.

Most of the streetlights in this part of town were still yellow-toned and warm, not replaced with LEDs. However, the light that illuminated Eiji’s photography was cool toned and striking. Max thought blueish lights were the least flattering.

Eiji was quickly swept up in a flurry of interest fans and other artists. It was a Saturday night and even if Max wasn’t too familiar with it, he knew that the art community in New York was both humongous and very competitive. Almost like a shapeshifter, Eiji put on his entertaining persona. His voice was louder, his smile - while still seeming false – was more conspicuous. He was much more comfortable with this crowd than Max was.

His charge preoccupied, Max decided to appreciate Eiji’s work on his own. The gallery had two rooms, the large front room with the glass wall was mostly full and stifling, so Max made his way into the sparsely populated back room. The light here was less blue, softer. A quick glance at the plaque by the door told Max that this room showcased some of Eiji’s older work.

Here the lighting wasn’t as sophisticated. The colors not as balanced. But these were more haunting. One photo showed a mattress nestled between dingy walls and a dirty floor. Despite the unwelcoming surrounds, the blankets were clean, and a soft looking sweater was laid on top of their rumpled pile. Another showed two cups of green tea, one nearly finished and the other obviously gone cold. Sun beams cutting through dusty morning air, falling on shining blond hair- wait.

Max spun around the room taking in every photo. Waves crashing against salt crusted cliffs; an obviously well cared for and loved revolver packed into a backpack, the only other item in the pack a Hemmingway novel; two hands close, but not touching, settled on a worn blanket; the same blanket, here worn around wide shoulders that were outlined in the night lights of New York City.

_Ash._

Suddenly Max felt embarrassed to be looking at – whatever this was. The air in that room was too thick, too tender, too heartbroken.

Upon leaving the small room, Max didn’t feel much better.

The rest of the photos in the larger, more brightly lit gallery contained photos that weren’t directly correlated to Ash, but all the same it still felt too intimate for Max. There was a woman sipping a latte by her itself in an empty café; a crowd of people waiting to see pass through the security line at the airport, all of their faces indistinguishable; the moment before a good luck charm – it looked to be the one Eiji’s little sister had given him for love – vanished beneath the dusk colored water of a wishing fountain.

This was all for Ash.

Something about it made Max feel sick. He couldn’t tell if Eiji still believed the blonde man was alive but living or not Eiji planned this show, so Ash would see it. It all felt wrong, hundreds of people had seen this show tonight and hundreds more would throughout the course of this exhibition. Eiji felt forced to let the world into his private life in such an intimate that Max felt angry for him. What was worse than all this was that Ash might not even see all this. All of it would be for nothing; Eiji was pouring his heart out to the world but the one person he was calling to wasn’t listening.

Max was very quickly ready to go home – the blue lights had started to make his head hurt – but thankfully Eiji seemed like he was too. The left from the crowded gallery early; Max chewing on curd of guilt and Eiji done with his schmoozing for the night. Stopping to silently thank the deities of parking in New York that his car had not collected a parking ticket, the two men got in the car. The ride back to Eiji’s hotel was quiet, both men lost in thought. Max thought Eiji would leave as soon as they pulled up in front of his building, but he stayed.

It seemed as if Eiji was struggling with something, so Max let him be. Finally, the Japanese man spoke up.

“Do you think American ghosts know the way to Japan?”

How on earth was Max supposed to answer that?

“I-“ But Eiji cut him off, seemingly insistent on getting all the words out before he lost his nerve. “I keep a shrine at home, and I pray every day, but I never feel him, so I thought – Maybe – I mean do you think it’s because he hates me?”

Eiji’s word vomit came as a surprise to both; it left Max speechless for a moment.

“I think anyone with half a brain would know Ash didn’t hate you.” The guilt from before made Max’s chest feel tight, his mouth dry.

Again, Eiji fiddled with something in his pocket, but this time he drew it out.

“I brought this because, even as silly as I know I sound right now, I thought it might help Ash if he was lost over here.” And all of a sudden Max felt like definitely the worst person on earth because Eiji looked ready to cry as he pressed something into Max’s hand. And to top it all off, the object now dwarfed in Max’s hand was a house key.

A fucking house key.

Complete with a colorful tag that spelled out “A,” “S,” “H” in flowing hand writing.

“I don’t know where he would find it, but I go back to Japan tomorrow morning and I figured if you had it, he might – “ A hiccup-turned-sob broke him off as Eiji turned away, hiding is face in his hands for a moment before opening the car door. Before Max could reach for him, the younger boy was already out of the car in the cold night.

“Thank you, Max.”

 The reporter paid much less attention than was safe while driving as e made his way home because seeing a man – _a boy ­_ – who was always comforting, healing, taking care of others so thoroughly drowning in grief was too much to handle. Of course, his show had been called _American Ghosts,_ the entire exhibition had been a desperate plea to someone, to Ash, to god maybe, to bring Ash back to him. Max could almost picture the younger man running after blond strangers, only to be disappointed time and time again. Eiji hadn’t moved on, in his sweet, nonintrusive way he was falling apart, and _Ash was still alive._

That night, unable to really explain what he was feeling to Jessica, Max held his wife and his son close against him a vowed that tomorrow, he would talk some sense into Ash.

 _180 IQ? Yeah right_.  

Ash made himself hard to find nowadays. He had enough money left over from Dino’s accounts that he could do just about anything he wanted without being seen. His gang mourned, but they got over his death. He made sure none of them knew about his continued existence in New York. The only people who knew he had survived were Max, Blanca, and Yut-Lung (it was hard to avoid that one).

He rarely had visitors, much preferring living in his make-believe world where Eiji would gently stroke his hair till he fell asleep and the weight next to him in bed wasn’t just a pillow, but even while wallowing in self-pity Ash had a soft spot for Max Lobo.

The man in question had run himself ragged trying to find someone to tell him where the infamous Ash Lynx lived (he finally got an answer after calling quite a few Caribbean resorts). Now he stood, fuming and inpatient, in the doorway of Ash’s condo. Somewhere in Ash’s brain he thought he should be embarrassed at the state the place was in. He wasn’t.

Ash rarely ate anymore, nothing tasting right without Eiji to look at him with big brown eyes, waiting expectantly for Ash’s input. When he did eat, it was usually take out. If there was anything Ash wanted to do less than eat it was cook. Signs of said takeout were scattered about the living room, a physical time line of the diet of the great Ash Lynx. Sounded like a great museum exhibit.

Max wasn’t impressed, Ash could tell from the way his top lip curled slightly, and the concerned slant of his eyes. Served him right though, busting in on Ash on a very busy day. How was he going to meet the day’s quota of self-hatred now?

“Hey old man.” Ash’s voice was barely above a whisper, voice hoarse from lack of use.

“Don’t ‘old man’ me, I’m mad at you.” Max thrust a pair of Ash’s shoes at him. “I have something to show you.”

Ash got in the car without much of a fight, he barely did anything with much of a fight anymore.

If he had been able to trick himself into thinking he could get over Eiji than he had been a fool. There was something about the older man that radiated peace. Ash was never able to put a finger on it, and he’d certainly tried. Maybe it was the way he listened to Ash’s every word, saving any judgement or analysis to after Ash had said everything he intended to. Very few people knew how to listen like that.

Or maybe it was the way he smiled at Ash; his eyes would crinkle up and only his left cheek would dimple, Ash always told him he looked ridiculous, but he was secretly stashing away each one of those smiles like a greedy child.

Or maybe it was the moments that Ash kept even dearer. The moments where he woke up from reliving his past or had to face the reality of the present. In those moments were Ash felt the most like a broken child Eiji would be there, all soft sweaters and smelling of green tea and flowers, and he would hold him gently. In those moments Eiji gave freely, never asking for anything in return, his arms both gentle and firm around the trembling, broken body of not the great Ash Lynx, but simply Eiji’s Ash. The moments where he could just be Ash, in the way Eiji always pronounced his name with his soft accent, were his favorite. And sometimes he would let himself give into to selfish desires and bury his face in silky black hair. In his dreams, these moments didn‘t have to end, and Ash was allowed to hold Eiji for as long as he wanted, desperately clinging to something he knew he’d wake without.

For a moment, when he received Eiji’s letter, Ash thought those dreams could be his future. Eiji, safe and strong in Japan. His arms around Ash’s shoulders. They were both laughing at some inside joke. But Lao’s knife threw all of that away.

Even though Ash survived, he was sure that Eiji would move on and – it hurt ash to even think about – give his unconditional love to someone else. Getting stabbed proved to Ash that Eiji would never be safe if he stayed with Ash, their tearful meeting in the hospital only a preview of the pain Ash would bring him. So, Ash lived alone, anonymous, with his towering collection of take out boxes.

 Pathetic really.

But Max had taken him to – what, a gallery?

“Never took you for someone with refined tastes, dad.” Ash joked feebly as he followed Max towards the entrance to the gallery. Hardly anyone was there, it was the middle of the day on a weekday afterall, not really the scene for artists.

“You’ll see.” Max was watching him expectantly, like he was supposed to react to something in his surroundings. It made his skin itch.

The name on the back wall took all the breath out of Ash’s lungs, the small headshot by the artist statement flooded his brain. He hadn’t seen those eyes outside of his dreams in so long. Even by a picture that barely captured their beauty, Ash was floored.

“What is this?” Ash could tell his voice was shaking, but Max, thankfully, didn’t comment.

“He’s a photographer now, apparently a pretty popular one too.”

Oh. Then maybe this wasn’t for him. Some irrational part of Ash’s brain felt let down by this. The thought of Eiji greeting adoring fans with that smile and that unconditional love, it made him want to leave. As much as Ash told himself he wanted Eiji to move on, the greedy, ugly side of him wanted Eiji to miss him. He wanted Eiji to look for him.

Max shook him out of his reverie. “Check the back room.”

Max must have hated him because as soon as Ash waked into that room his chest physically hurt. There were pictures of Cape Cod, pictures of their bed in one of Ash’s hideouts, there was even a picture of – _oh god_ – Shorter smiling back at the camera, his frame illuminated by the Cape Cod sunset. Ash drank in these images greedily, like a man dying of dehydration finally finding a clear stream. But suddenly Ash couldn’t see one of the photos, the photo of the sweater, it had gone all blurry. Was he going blind? He brought his hands up to his eyes, but when he withdrew them, they were wet, and his vision was still blurry.

Ash Lynx was crying in the middle of an art gallery in Brooklyn, triggered by a picture of a sweater.

The letter that Eiji had written him gave him a sense that someone out there loved him, cared about him. It went deeper than romantic love, Ash was pretty sure Eiji would love him regardless of their relationship. Being with Eiji was like a heavy blanket, comforting and safe.  Reading that letter was like Eiji calling his name. “ _Come home”_ he said, and Ash wanted to so badly. And he was doing it again, this art exhibition was an invitation, not expecting anything in return, just an offer. But then he had made Eiji _so sad_ and maybe Ash didn’t deserve to see him, to hold him.

“Hey.” Max’s voice was soft, gentle. Old Ash would have lashed out at this; new Ash was much too tired. “He left something for you.” _What?_ A glimmer of joy reared its fragile head. Eiji was always giving to Ash, always taking care of him with no demands.

“He told me he was afraid you had gotten lost on the way to Japan. He left you his house key.” Of course, he did. Ash was crying again before Max even pressed the key into his hand. Finally, open with himself, raw and vulnerable in that art gallery, Ash realized just how much he missed Eiji. He missed his warmth, his voice, the gentle way Eiji would touch him. He didn’t know if he loved Eiji in a romantic way, he just wanted to be close to him, wanted to love and appreciate him in any way his broken self could.

“He did all of this,” Ash gestured around the room weakly. “For me?”

Max nodded encouragingly. “He misses you.”

“Does he know I’m still alive?” Ash’s mind was spinning, trying to figure out how Eiji knew, who told him.

“He doesn’t.” Ash listened attentively, this didn’t make any sense then. “I think he just felt this was the right thing to do.”

What did Ash ever do to deserve the love of someone like Eiji? Ash, weeks later, one fake passport and a trip across an ocean under his belt, still hadn’t figured it out. Maybe he never would, but with Eiji’s plea for Ash to come home so clear, Ash knew what he had to do.

But now, on the outskirts of Tokyo, the house key heavy in his hand, Ash was absolutely terrified. The little orange apartment shouldn’t seem like the panic invoking abyss that it seemed to be for Ash, the rational part of his brain knew that. Ash hadn’t really thought about this moment, the last three weeks had been a flurry to get him to this point, but he hadn’t really thought about crossing this bridge.

But Eiji had gone all the way to America for him, Eiji had called him to this point and he was in that apartment just as kind and giving as he’d always been.

Armed with that knowledge, his heart beating almost out of his chest, Ash turned the house key – _his house key ­–_ in the lock. Eiji’s home had lots of lamps, the lighting soft and comforting, much like its own owner. But Eiji wasn’t anywhere to be seen. His breath still catching in his throat, Ash couldn’t bring himself to call for the man he had been longing for.

Moving with practiced ease and silence, Ash examined the life that Eiji had built for himself. What Ash immediately noticed was the half-unpacked nature of the apartment; there were still boxes and suitcases tucked into random corners. The next thing he noticed was a roughly made, but clearly loved Shinto shrine on a low table by the back wall.

Along with a vase of wild flowers and an incense burner, there were several framed photographs that caught the sunlight filtering in through the half-closed blinds. Almost every photo (except for the one from the gallery of Shorter) was of Ash, all of them un-staged, all of them developed in a light so intimate Ash felt like crying. Again.  

Tearing his eyes away from the shrine, Ash realized he wasn’t alone in the room anymore. Eiji had padded out of some deeper room in the apartment, his sock clad feet making little to no noise. His eyes were blown wide and tearful.

“Ash?” His voice was wavering, like he was scared to let himself believe what he was seeing.

“Eiji.” His anxiety unable to hold him back anymore with Eiji so close, Ash’s voice cracked as he crossed to Eiji. Ash probably held onto Eiji too tight, slightly crushing the smaller man’s frame, but Ash didn’t think he would have been able to unwind them even if he wanted to.

“I’m sorry Eiji. I’ve missed you so much.” They were both crying, Eiji’s hands fisting in the back of Ash’s shirt. Ash felt like he was flying. In that moment, Ash was safe. His demons would still follow him to Japan. They would still have to clarify what exactly their relationship was, but not today, and not for a very long time. Finally, Ash was home, and he and Eiji had all the time they could ever want.


End file.
